


The Good Wife

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Comeplay, Cooking, Deepthroating, Domestic, Felching, Feminization, Fluff, Food, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Panty Kink, Pie, Rimming, Roughness, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Castiel, Top Sam, Wincestiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well look at you.”  Sam folds his arms and leans against the wall, eyes narrowing as he watches Dean finish prepping the pie and push it aside.  Dean wipes his hands against his chest, leaving flour trails on the pink material.  He'd forgotten he was wearing it in his haste to get dinner ready.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Wife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Snapp asked for domestic fluff with pie. Obviously I made it as filthy as possible.

Parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme; cumin and saffron and allspice and mace. Dean Winchester is becoming a cook.

 

Salt and burn is still the order of the day, matches and Morton's just the same but with pilot lights and _pot au feu_ (which is just beef stew but it makes Cas' face light up like carnivorous Christmas). Potatoes _au gratin_ , _béchamel_ , _bouquet garni_ and _menage a trois_ – Dean's life is awash in French. It's delicious.

 

A pinch and a stir and it's all simmering, timed for all his nonchalance because it has to be perfect when they get home. Dean could read Sam's face like a book and Cas couldn't lie, so each wide-eyed second bite is a scratch behind the ear, groans of satisfaction not unfamiliar but different in this newer context. Dean is _good_.

 

Dean still cleans his fingernails with a knife but these days it's less monster chunks and motor grease, traded in for the pasty pliancy of flour and fat – don't listen to anyone who says piecrust should be made with butter. The pig is God's animal indeed and Dean has been learning her bounty well. Pork chops with apples and onions, BLT's with heirloom tomatoes and of course, pie.

 

Apple tonight, filling take seven because forget tomatoes, who knew there were so many fucking _apples_? Golden Delicious, Granny Smith and new for tonight, softball-sized Wolf River from the Farmer's Market downtown. A little more lemon, a little less sugar than last week. Dean always makes too much for a pie, but then he has enough to warm it late at night and spoon it over Sam's ice cream so really it's just right.

 

Dean's crimping when they get home, sealing the crusts together with his fingers. It looks better with a fork but it feels better this way, the irregular flutes and ridges browning up into the nice crisp that Sam likes. There's a simple hole in the center, Cas' favorite part when the filling bubbles over and sticks caramel-chewy to the edge.

 

“Honey, I'm home.” Sam's voice booms out on purpose, the echo is still new enough to make him love it. Cas' face peeks around the doorframe first, raising an eyebrow as he looks Dean up and down.

 

“It smells delicious.” Cas disappears, returning with Sam in tow and a smile on his face.

 

“Well look at you.” Sam folds his arms and leans against the wall, eyes narrowing as he watches Dean finish prepping the pie and push it aside. Dean wipes his hands against his chest, leaving flour trails on the pink material. He'd forgotten he was wearing it in his haste to get dinner ready.

 

Dean had found time to do a lot of things. He knew where all the local farmer's markets were, all the grocery stores and hardware places and restaurants and even the Bed Bath and Beyond that he'd never admit had almost stunned him into leaving with its sheer size. But there were some things he hadn't quite found time for.

 

“Still haven't gotten a new apron, huh?” Sam stalks over to him, and Dean's stomach does a little flip because he doesn't need any special “I can read my brother from across the room” skills to recognize _that_ face. Dean braces his hands on the counter as Sam presses against his back. Cas leans easily against the counter, finger dipping into the saucepan to scoop out a taste of pie filling.

 

Sam's finger slides along his shoulder, disappearing under the ruffles of Dean's apron. It was the sort of thing that would put a fifties housewife to shame, with ruffled hems and shoulders and a small trail of white eyelet lace anyplace there was half a reason to put it. But it covered Dean's broad chest and kept the food off his clothes and was perfectly functional for all the frippery.

 

“Good.” Sam grazes his lips over the back of Dean's neck, stroking his hands up and down Dean's arms before squeezing his biceps. “I like seeing my pretty little wife in the kitchen.”

 

Maybe Dean kept the apron for other reasons.

 

“Aren't we lucky, Cas?” Dean could feel his cheeks burning as Sam licked along the shell of his ear, making Dean shiver. “So good to us, Dean. Keep the house clean, cook us all this good food...”

 

“Yes, we are.” Cas sucks the sweetness off his finger before turning Dean's head for a kiss. It's rough, for him, and Dean feels himself start to thicken as he thinks about what Sam and Cas were doing on the way home if Cas is already kissing like that.

 

“Such a good wife.”

 

It had started as a joke, of course, like Sam wasn't going to tease him about the apron and the increasingly ambitious dishes Dean put on the table. Sam had almost broken a rib laughing when Dean had served vegetables in earnest.

 

It wasn't the worst joke Dean had ever heard.

 

“I think we need to show Dean how much we appreciate him.” Sam's hand slides down Dean's stomach, under his apron but over his Henley. Dean doesn't have to see to know that the wicked smile spreading across Cas' face is a perfect mirror of Sam's.

 

“I think that's a very good idea.” Cas keeps kissing him, turning Dean inch by inch with a hand on each of Dean's cheeks. Dean sighs as he feels himself pressed between them, brother at his back and an angel molded against his chest.

 

Sam can be maddeningly slow when he feels like it, but not tonight. Tonight it's all deft fingers undoing his belt and popping the buttons of his fly, reaching in to graze fingertips over ruched fabric.

 

“ _Dean._ ” Sam says it deep, like he's caught somewhere between laughter and chastisement. Two fingers tap against the curve of his belly, stretching pink lace along with them. “God, you're fucking perfect, Dean.”

 

Cas licks along the seam of his lips before looking back at Sam, one eloquent eyebrow raised in question.

 

“Show him.” Sam pulls his hands back to rest them on the cut of Dean's waist, lips curved in a smile against Dean's ear.

 

Dean kicks his slippers off, leaning his head back against Sam's shoulder as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. Sam looks down at him and smiles softly, and it makes it a little easier for him to shuck his pants and kick them aside while Cas watches hungrily. It's always been a tenuous line between teasing and tugging at what one of them really wants, and maybe it's that curl of lingering embarrassment that makes it that much better when Sam cups Dean's cock through the thin lace of his panties and groans.

 

“Fuck.” Sam's voice is gritty, hand squeezing hard, nothing girly or gentle about it just like it should be. Dean gathers the fabric of his apron, pink bunching up slowly in his hands not for some coy striptease but just because this, Sam grinding his palm against the catch-pull lace while Cas watches slack-jawed and tense with want, is enough to make Dean lose track of time and fine motor function.

 

It's worth the wait when Dean pushes aside the last bit of skirt, leaving nothing but the gloss-red head of his dick pushing free from the confines of his panties. Cas looks down and growls, sinking to his knees and running his lips up the hard line of Dean's cock.

 

“Beat me to it, fucker.” Sam chuckles over his shoulder, shaking his head at Cas as he drags the pads of his fingers across the T of lace over Dean's ass. Twisting an index finger through the fabric, Sam tugs just enough to make Dean whimper as Cas closes his mouth over the head of his cock.

 

“I got you,” Sam whispers, digging his hand into the meat of Dean's thigh as he crouches down. He hefts Dean's leg up and rests it on Cas' shoulder, leaving Dean wobbly on one foot but not worried. There's enough strength crouched on the kitchen floor to hold Dean in mid-air if they felt like it. They won't let him fall.

 

Cas makes an appreciative huff, his nose snug against the soft skin of Dean's belly. He runs his hand up the side of Dean's leg and presses his hand into Dean's ass, pulling him open and pushing him deeper into Cas' mouth. Sometimes Dean forgets that Cas doesn't technically need to breathe.

 

Sam's breath is hot-damp against him, running his tongue over bunched-up lace and sighing. “You're so fucking good, Dean.” His palm rests gently at first, just squeezing at Dean's flesh as his mouth runs up and down the cleft of his ass. “Perfect little wifey.” He snares the little strip of mesh in his teeth, pulling it back just to let it snap against Dean's skin.

 

Dean's caught between wanting to fuck forward into Cas' mouth and trying to arch back into Sam's, his hips settling on an erratic stutter that would set him off balance if he didn't have a strong hand on either side of his ass pulling him open and holding him up. He grunts his frustration as Sam tuts and tugs his panties to the side.

 

And then Dean has two mouths on him and he can't remember to feel anything except good, wet enough to hear it, slurp and sigh over the same sounds of contentment his pot roast earns him. Sam licks into him from one end while Cas rolls his tongue and teases out every savory drop of precome Dean has to offer. Sam's fingers slip in easily, spit-wet and gentle until they aren't, tongue slipped between the V until Dean's legs shake and he knows Cas is holding him upright.

 

Dean had been laboring with the appetizing catch of lace on his dick all day, making every turn to grab a spoon or sprinkle a pinch of salt a little reminder of who he was cooking for. Dean's food was good because he practiced and paid attention and followed instructions, but it was delicious because it was for them. Cas digs his nails into Dean's ass and brings him deeper, cheeks hollowed out like he'll never get enough and Dean is so ready.

 

It's not really a word, too many consonants strung together under his breath but they all know what it means. Dean bares his teeth as Sam springs up, licking his lips and just watching Dean. Dean wants him back but not as badly as he loves the look on Sam's face, flushed and fox-eyed.

 

“Want to see you come, Dean,” Sam kisses into his mouth, warm and salt of the earth and _yes_ , “look so fucking beautiful when you come.” Dean couldn't stop it now if he had to, not when Cas reaches around to fill the empty space Sam left and grazes his teeth over the flush-taut ridge of Dean's cock.

 

It's just sparks and white, eyes on Sam and a hand on Cas and his head is swimming. He slumps onto Sam's shoulder, leaning forward until he can see straight again. The counter bears his weight as Sam bends him forward, his cock hanging sticky-soft as Cas prods one foot up, then the other. Sam kicks his legs apart, shushing him and kissing at his neck as Cas presses up against his other side.

 

“You taste so good, Dean,” Cas rakes his nails through Dean's hair, hard enough to make Dean gasp before he feels wet lace in his mouth. “Don't you?” Dean's teeth close around the fabric, tasting Cas' spit and the salt tang of his own spunk in his mouth.

 

“Know what else tastes good?” Sam reaches a long arm over the counter, sinking two fingers into the leftover pie filling and pulling them out. Shiny, slick and sweet and fuck, Sammy, god, fuck, yes. Dean sucks on the panties in his mouth and cants his hips back, pink ruffles of his apron bunching up as he draws his shoulders together.

 

Sam's fingers are warm and wet inside him, hot sticky sweet from my head down to my feet indeed, like they hadn't fucked to Def Leppard in the back of the car a million times. Cas wouldn't get the reference but he'd picked up Dean's sweet tooth, arching an eyebrow and adding one of his own slender pie-slick fingers alongside Sam's. Dean's more than ready and they're just teasing him now, sliding in and out until Dean can feel caramel sugar running down his legs.

 

“Mmmm,” Sam can moan like a fucking pornstar when he feels like it, leaning down to suck his fingers into his mouth as Dean watches. “It'll taste better after we both fuck you, won't it, sweetheart?” Another greedy scoop of his fingers and Sam's hand disappears, replaced with a blunt press at Dean's hole. “What do you say Cas, think Dean'll mind if we eat dessert first? Fuck our sweet little wife till he's leaking out pie and come and, _fuck_ ,” Sam digs a hand into his hip, steady and slow and he sinks in. “Jesus, Dean, so fucking good, yes...”

 

Dean had taught Sam a lot of things but that filthy mouth was his and his alone. If Dean's panties weren't a sopping-wet ball in his mouth they'd have burst into fucking flames by now. Sam starts slow because he knows Dean doesn't want it gentle, not like this, but he's still a little brother for all he's everything else and he'll drive Dean up the wall any chance he can get. Dean's “fucking bitch” is a garbled mess around his mouthful of lace but Sam laughs just the same, throwing his head back and mumbling “Jerk” before he pulls Dean back hard enough to make him see stars.

 

Sam's hips snap forward with a wet smack, picking up to a pace that'll leave bruises on Dean's thighs from banging into the counter. Cas could heal them but he won't, not if Dean wants to keep them. Cas has his hand wrapped around his dick like a promise, stroking himself slowly and doing that entranced deer-in-headlights look of delight than only Cas can pull off without looking like a doofus. Sam slams into him one last time and Dean's eyes uncross long enough to focus on the small puddle of drool marring his kitchen counter while Sam screams his name.

 

It's an easy trade when Sam pulls out, empty just long enough to feel the wet slide down his leg before Cas sinks into him. For all that James Novak hadn't been a tall man, the Good Lord had made him dick-first and ran out of inches before he was finished. Cas makes the most of every single one one of them, pushing in a little just to draw back and savor the way Dean moans.

 

When Cas is finally balls-deep, Sam trails pie-sticky fingers over Dean's lips and pulls the panties out of his mouth. He kisses Dean hot and flush, nothing left that isn't blood-rich and swollen as Cas pounds into him. He chuckles as he pulls off, shaking out the little strip of pink and waiting until he knows Dean is watching.

 

“Made a mess of me, sweetheart.” Sam shakes his head, putting on a prim little smile as he wipes himself off with Dean's panties, holding them up to trail glistening-wet off his index finger in front of Dean's face. Even Cas lets out a “Fuck, Sam,” at that because seriously Sammy, _fuck_. Dean just looks up at him, teeth ground together because it's a thousand times better when Sam squeezes his jaw open and shoves them back in.

 

Cas comes quickly after that, hips rocking hard enough to make Dean wince as he's pressed forward but fuck it's good, God, Sam clenching his mouth shut with one big hand while Cas stutters into him. They're all panting by the time Cas pulls out, Sam's sweaty forehead pressed against his while Dean cranes his neck to watch them kiss. They share a look when they're done, nodding at each other and Dean braces himself because that face means nothing but trouble.

 

He's expecting the whirl-around but not the hands under his knees. Dean bangs his head on the cabinets as they hoist him up onto the counter, blessing the Men of Letters for their sturdy construction standards and ample counterspace. It hurts but it's not a bad thing, not when Dean's just this side of something shameful. For all the wife talk Dean's as strong as he ever was, and he needs this, too, this roughness that sets him as an equal even when he's staring down the expanse of his frilly little apron at the two men pushing his legs up to his chest.

 

Sam never looks away when he does this, eyes steady and wide as he licks a clean stripe across the mess leaking from Dean's hole. Dean shudders as Sam and Cas trade off, flattened tongues catching the sticky-sugared taste of each other before Sam ducks down and presses his thumbs flush against the good-ache burn of Dean's rim. Cas smiles as he pulls the balled-up panties out of Dean's mouth, lips shiny-swollen and suspiciously closed as he leans in to kiss Dean.

 

They must have planned it, fucking fuckers, the way Sam seals his lips and sucks just as Cas opens his mouth and spit-licks a wet load of everything Dean loves onto his tongue. Salty and sweet and Sam and Cas, heaven and earth and home, now.

 

Dean's legs fight him as he tries to stand up but he manages, wiping his hands down his chest and looking back and forth between Sam and Cas. They're both naked from the waist down and they both have shiny streaks on their chins and Dean has never loved his family so much.

 

“Well,” Dean says, voice a little shaky as he picks up the neglected pie and puts it in the oven. “I hope you didn't spoil your appetites for dinner.”

 

Sam laughs and kisses him, bending down to pick Dean up and carry him into the dining room while Cas follows, pot roast in hand.

 

 

 


End file.
